Spring brings rebirth, renewal and a gift of pink tulips

I’m in my backyard on a Saturday morning. My goal is to plant seeds I picked up from my local library. Eggplant, corn, okra, tomatoes, cantaloupe. I fill pots with soil, then I drop in the eggplant, okra and tomato seeds. The corn and the cantaloupe are destined for a sunlit patch of earth.

As I dig holes with my spade and drop in the seeds, the cool temperature signals that winter’s grip is slipping. It’s the interval between winter’s chill and summer’s suffocating humidity. The break before the heat arrives and ushers in the annual plague of gnats.

My companion is dressed in rain boots and a light coat. At 4 1/2, everything is a wonder to her. She stands on the front edge of a lifetime of firsts. She comes from a long line of peasant farmers, people who know what it means to struggle to survive. She will know one day that rich volcanic soil is buried beneath the fingernails of her ancestors; the nutrients from potatoes and yams are embedded in her DNA.

The tulips are the product of fall sweat and backbreaking labor. They were among bags of bulbs my wife and I purchased in October. The yard of our new home is endowed with hedges of camellias and azaleas. We wanted to plant bulbs to ensure color all year long, and the tulips along the walkway are the first to appear.

The eggplant, okra, corn and cantaloupe are for my sustenance. A hedge against rising grocery prices. The tulips’ beauty enriches my soul.

Planting, I know, is an act of faith. It is a vote of confidence in the future. Planting is a prelude to growth. And growth must come before the harvest.

I know intuitively that the laws of nature, ordained since creation of seed time and harvest, are part of the Adamic promise received generations ago. Promises made, promises kept.

I look up. My granddaughter is holding a pink tulip flower in her left hand. Can I give this to my mother? she asks. The glee on her face is unmistakable.

She is the next generation — our down payment on a future I can only imagine. Like spring itself, she’s our family’s hope of renewal and regeneration. The simplicity of her joy lifts my spirits.

Even as I dig holes and pour the dark, rich soil into pots, music from a nearby Presbyterian church’s carillon punctuates the air. “Amazing grace! How sweet the sound” chimes over the morning breeze. “Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine.” “It is well with my soul.”

These are hymns of my grandmother; they are songs of my boyhood; they are the soundtrack of my faith. In my middle age, they are hourly anthems of renewal, and a reminder that despite the chaos, there’s constancy in my faith and my hope. That constancy is a bulwark against the fear of uncertainty, about what the future might hold.

Author Toni Sorenson wrote that spring is far more than a changing of the seasons; it’s a rebirth of the spirit. It is even much more than that. It’s a rebirth of all creation, seen and unseen.

Even as the beauty of this spring is muddied by wars and rumors of wars, the azaleas and camellias make a strong case. Their beauty is unsullied by the chaos that surrounds us; their majesty is undiminished by the ugliness that so often characterizes our human relations. Their existence is a rebuke to us all.

Spring is also pollen season. It was once a time of pure misery for me, but thanks to the miracle of yearlong allergy medications, my sinuses and my senses are clear enough for me to work in my garden or to sit and watch the Flint River as it flows past, from Atlanta in the north to the Apalachicola Bay and the Gulf of Mexico in the south.

This renewal of the earth and the promise of seasons to come inspire me. They infuse me with new energy. It is an opportunity to correct past wrongs; to do it better next time; to embrace unfulfilled promise.

As I reach my mid-60s, this season brings a new perspective. Each spring is to be measured and cherished. It’s a time for calibration and a time to assess how much has been accomplished.

Are there unfinished tasks to be completed? Have I done enough with my talents? These questions are not about merit or working for divine favor; they are attempts to quiet the murmuring in my mind, the doubts in my spirit. No one wants to live with regret. And looking back and looking forward opens the door inevitably to regret.

Spring is a reminder that there is still time to correct past errors, to get past idle promises and half-baked resolutions. There is still time to step toward that one thing. So much about life at middle age concerns legacy. What will I leave behind?

Perhaps it’s sharing time with my granddaughter. Perhaps it’s the familiarity of old songs. Perhaps it’s the freshness of the air before the gnats return.

Spring brings a clarity that purifies. It allows us to see life through the lens of hope. Spring brings its own music, asks its own questions, ushers in its own scents, delivers its own promises. And like my granddaughter clutching the pink tulip, it brings priceless gifts for all to savor.